


Little Brother

by orphan_account



Series: My Brother [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Autistic Sherlock, Autistic!Sherlock, Fluffy, Kid!Lock, Kidfic, Mycroft being a good big brother, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-16
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-05-02 00:24:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5226839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock is born, he doesn't cry for hours like the other babies. No, he screams whenever someone touches him. He doesn't speak at the usual time either. Mycroft Holmes will not give up on his little brother, even though the world seems to have.</p><p> </p><p>**WIP**</p><p>**ON HIATUS**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will be updated as often as I can manage, mostly - I have school and homework to deal with. So sorry if it's a bit late sometimes but I don't want to publish stuff without checking, fixing etc. Feel free to leave comments (and ideas!) or kudos, if you want to!

The first time Mycroft sees Sherlock is in an incubator in SCBU. Monitors beep, wavy lines and numbers flash on the screen. Some kind of contraption is taped to his little brother's face; later discovered to be oxygen. Sherlock is surprisingly pale compared to the screaming red-pink babies they'd passed. Sherlock isn't screaming. He's not even asleep, his inky black eyes open, observing. A nurse approaches him, reaching out to touch his hand. Why she could go near him but Mycroft couldn't always annoys him. The moment she touches his hand, Sherlock screams. He screams until everyone's tried to comfort him. The touch only makes it worse. Eventually, he stops, most likely exhausted. His eyes slide close as he lies motionless in the incubator, slightly pink.

Mycroft's not allowed to be in the doctor's office with his parents. He sits outside in the corridor with a stupid animals colouring book. He tries to remember their Latin names. _Serpentes_. _Panthera Pardus. Panthers Leo._ He hears words floating around. Mycroft drops to one knee. unties a shoelace and presses an ear to the door.

"If you've got one genius, you've got to balance it out, most likely. It's just the genetics. I mean, William could be another genius. But, quite frankly, I believe it's a way bigger chance of autism. We can provide around-the-clock care at home until he is sixteen, due to the apparent severity of the case, if you would like."

When Mycroft's parents come out, Mother is crying and Father has his jaw set. They hold Mycroft's hands and lead him to Sherlock's room; an incubator still, with machines around it but only a few are connected. Sherlock's little hand is sticking out. It breaks Mycroft's heart to not be able to hold that hand, to comfort his poor little brother.

* * *

Sherlock has a special room in the Holmes mansion. The room that is meant to be his bedroom has been padded, like a cell in a mental asylum. A cot in the corner is also padded, wooden slats and all. It leaves a little space to see the rest of the room. There are a few toys lying around and a pile of blankets. Nurses come and go, changing and feeding Sherlock. He always cries and twists in his baby clothes. Mycroft isn't allowed to go near him.

So one day, when Mother and Father are busy, he sneaks in. The nurses look at him but let him, out of pity maybe. Mycroft slowly walks up to his brother and puts his head over the cot. Sherlock's eyes dart around. He reaches out his hand slowly, so Sherlock can see, to his brother's hand. Sherlock doesn't cry. He curls his hand around Mycroft's finger.

Suddenly, there's banging on the door. Mycroft jumps and Sherlock screams. He's dragged out by his father and told never to go in again. Sherlock screams for most of the day and everyone blames Mycroft. Nobody knows that Sherlock was silent when he was with his brother.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock grows, like any other toddler. It's his head that's different. It's hard to live with, even the doctors suggest an institute. Mycroft is furious, but what can an eleven year old do?

Therapy begins as soon as Sherlock can sit up and move his head. They place coloured blocks, play dough, marbles in front of him. The staff observe him, jotting down notes in the file. Sherlock rarely does anything though. One memorable occasion was when he placed every block back in the right order in a few minutes. People say it's just a coincidence; People say Sherlock is mentally undeveloped, low IQ. The screaming still happens every time.

Mycroft doesn't believe them. He knows that there's an amazing little brother there, just hiding. He doesn't tell anyone, they wouldn't believe him. Mycroft is still not allowed near Sherlock; forced to watch as he cries and yells as people pick him up.

Sherlock doesn't speak until he's two. It's not to any of the staff, or his parents. He crawls up to the glass that Mycroft is standing behind, watching him. Sherlock presses his hands against the wall.

"My-croft."

No, Mycroft is not crying. It's allergies. The therapist explains to his parents that it's from conversation, listening and watching when they pointed his brother out occasionally through the glass. Everyone's in a better mood, not to mention Mycroft. He promises to be the best big brother ever! That's when Mr and Mrs Holmes let their oldest son play with his little brother. It's a great idea.

Mycroft is the only person who can touch Sherlock - and the only person Sherlock touches. His little brother runs his hands down his t-shirt, feeling the soft, different material. Sherlock hands Mycroft blocks and toys and plays, decidedly happily. Mycroft talks to his little brother, hoping for a response but it doesn't come.

A few months before Sherlock's fourth birthday, the therapists, paediatricians and Mr and Mrs Holmes have a meeting. Mycroft, as per usual now, kneels on the floor and presses his ear against the door. They've already discussed quite a bit, but the end is the most important.

"He just doesn't show any signs of communication. The speech is probably just repetition or imitation. I don't believe that your son will grow out of this, if you will excuse the frankness. It's just extremely unlikely. He would fare most well in a special care centre for disabled children that I know of."

Mycroft is surprised that they can't hear his blood boiling in the silence that follows.

"Well he's no use here. Might as well send him off." Father says, and there's the sound of Mother sobbing, "C-c-cost?"

The oldest Holmes son can barely remain silent as a single hot tear trails down his face. He gets up slowly, silently, and walks down the corridor. When he's far enough away, Mycroft runs into Sherlock's nursery. The toddler is sitting in the corner, rocking gently back and forth. Mycroft kneels down beside him and whispers into his small ear.

"They're going to send you away. But I'll stop them. You'll stay here, you'll be safe. I promise, Sherlock, that I'm going to protect you until the day I die." 

* * *

 

Mycroft lies on his bed, frowning. He's looking for a way to keep Sherlock at home. Nothing good comes to mind as he rolls over in frustration. However, something catches his eye. It's an old book he stole from his parents, to find out how to get his way the most. He was two, the last time he'd ever had a tantrum. From then on, he'd talk, negotiate. Tantrums were undignified, uncivilised and.. _effective_.

For Mycroft to show emotion, there'd have to be something serious. Anything above normal talking volume? Definitely seriously wrong. As an eleven year old, he is not familiar with tantrums, or emotions. The last tantrum comes clear in his mind. It had been talked about for years, such was the extent.

Now it just left the planning...


	3. It's About Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has to convince his parents to let Sherlock stay - Convince, argue with, the same thing. Sherlock loves his big brother and tries to be like him.

_It has to be dinner. They'll tell me then._ Now the undignified act. Shouting? Yes. Staff? Shout at them. Generally be loud and annoying. Don't eat.  
It's a rough plan, but easy enough to improvise on. Part of him wants to just talk to his parents about it but Mycroft reminds himself that this is about Sherlock. Books! The Holmes' have a lot of books, many in the dining room - more like hall - that he can.. Not tear pages, but certainly leave them messier than they were before.

Usually, Mycroft will eat alone in his room, when he's studying, or with Sherlock. Today, he's forced to eat with his parents. The chair is stiff and uncomfortable, rarely used. For a few minutes, there's silence, except for cutlery clinking on plates. Mother refuses to look up and Father stares straight ahead. Mycroft sits, trying to act as if he doesn't know why they're eating together. Eventually, Father breaks the silence.

"Mycroft, your mother and I have something to tell you." he says, looking at his son. Mycroft looks up and swallows his food, which suddenly tastes like cardboard.  
"Yes?"  
"Right. Well, it's about Sherlock. The therapist has found a special needs centre that would look after him better than we can. He is going next Monday." Father looks solemn.

"So you're just giving up on him? Just sending him off because you can't be bothered to care for him!" Mycroft asks quietly and solemnly.

"It's what's best for him, Mycroft. We just can't give him everything he needs here, and Sherlock would be bullied - at least - at school." Father says.

"Get him a tutor like the one I used to have! Money isn't the problem. We can do this." Mycroft pushes his chair back and stands.

"We've arranged it already. Sit down, Myc." Mother says pointedly.

"It's Mycroft. Money isn't the problem, you are! You're pathetic, you won't even give him a chance. He's clever, but you don't care. You're ashamed! You're scared and embarrassed and _I hate you!_ " It's easy to shout, the words tumbling into his head and out his mouth. Mycroft tips the chair over and runs out of the dining room, his feet stamping loudly. The hand he trails against the wall makes books and ornaments fall to the ground with thumps and smashes. The shouted "I hate you!"s echoes until he enters Sherlock's room, ignoring all the staff.

Sherlock smiles at him like he has no idea what's going on. He doesn't. Mycroft sits next to his brother, breathing fast.  
"Myc?"

He sounds so innocent, so careless. Mycroft feels the hot tears run down his face as his eyes prickle. He buries his head in Sherlock's shoulder whilst hugging him. Even though he's trying to stop crying, Mycroft continues to get his brother's shoulder wetter with tears. He just hopes that his parents will see. Sherlock can do so much. He needs help, to be that clever person, that's all.

After what seems to be hours, Mycroft pulls away from Sherlock. The tears stopped a while back but the brothers continued hugging, Sherlock silently. Mycroft closes the door and leaves  
Sherlock. He sits at his desk, reading the psychology book. It could've been a book on fairies for all Mycroft cares. All he can think about it Sherlock. His eyes scan page after page as his mind is a million miles away. Interrupting the silence of the mansion, three sharp knocks come on the door.

It's Mycroft's parents, Father behind Mother. They look worried but not confused. They sit on the bed, pulling their son in between them.

"Let me just say, you want to talk to me far more than I you." Mycroft says sharply.  
"Mycroft. We know that you're angry - upset at Sherlock leaving." Father says.  
"Why?" Mother asks.  
"Because he's my brother. He's not some stranger we can just leave. Why can't we help him, he can be the same as anyone. Better, even. Sherlock is brilliant, only you ignore it."  
"Caring is not a-"  
"I know! He's my brother and I don't care what you say!" Mycroft interrupts his father. Mother sighs and mutters in her husband's ear. They both get up and leave, closing the door gently. Mycroft doesn't get up after them, he rolls over and lies on the bed, facing the window and watches the sky.

* * *

 

Breakfast is silent. Mycroft stays in his room, swearing not to eat. His parents discuss Sherlock. One slight argument later, they make the therapist tell the home that Sherlock is not coming. It may or may not been influenced by the fact that Mycroft isn't eating or listening to anyone. He hasn't acted like that for years. When he makes no re-appearance, Mother goes upstairs to his bedroom. Mycroft is sitting at his desk, flicking through a chemistry book.  
"Myc?"

"Why did you call me Mycroft when you only say Myc?" he says sarcastically.  
"Mycroft, Sherlock is staying. I promise."  
Mycroft looks up. He doesn't stand.  
"Thank you." It's not much but it's honest.

* * *

"Sherlock is staying, I promise."

Mycroft feels the happiest he can remember. He has to resist the urge to run straight to Sherlock. However, he's still angry at his parents for even considering sending his brother away. To balance his emotions, he simply looks up and says a terse "Thank you." It's simple yet effective.

As soon as the stairs creak, saying that Mother is downstairs, Mycroft jumps up and runs along the mansion to Sherlock. Grinning madly, he picks Sherlock up.

"You're not going! You're staying here!" Mycroft says happily.

Sherlock smiles. He doesn't know what's going on. Mycroft is doing it and he's the one who knows everything. The one that comes to see him lots and talks to him. The only person that is allowed to touch him. Mycroft is special. Even though the staff see Sherlock more, and chat idly, he doesn't like them. Partly because their hands are always horribly cold. They don't talk like Mycroft, or pick him up gently like he does. All that goes into that smile, the copying. Mycroft knows that it isn't simple; he's right. His little brother looking happy keeps him grinning, in the way only Sherlock can do.

The rest of the day is spent playing together. Mycroft sneaks some fabrics from his mother's room and brings them to Sherlock. Muslin is his favourite; he twists it and rubs it between his fingers and holds it to his face. This gives Mycroft an idea for later. For once, the oldest Holmes doesn't study, or do his homework. He's got an essay due tomorrow morning but Sherlock is more important than anything. When the sky dims to orange-yellow Mycroft has to leave to have dinner, whilst his brother eats his special meal supervised by the staff.

Careful not to get caught, Mycroft avoids the creaky floorboards as he enters his mother's room. In the bottom drawer is a roll of muslin, like the scrap Sherlock loves. He cuts off a fair-sized piece and picks up a needle and red thread, then leaves the room as it was, the material folded into his pocket. He gets back to his bedroom. Mycroft doesn't know much about stitching so he scans books for methods. When he eventually finishes, his fingers are pricked and bleeding, but he's stitched a red "S.H" on the light blue muslin. The next day, Sherlock is given the present. He loves it and doesn't let it go, until the staff have to prise it off him.


	4. Not Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Important decisions about Sherlock are made, as well as the very beginning of one of those choices.

It's becoming more clear that Sherlock is intelligent. Mycroft talks to him, tells him colours, objects, numbers. He can repeat them, in order, describe objects. Only his big brother can teach him. The therapist listens, at their appointments. Sherlock still hates being touched; he won't scream, he'll just rock faster afterwards. Rocking. He rocks almost all of the time. Sometimes, he'll stand and sit over and over, or just move his arms or legs. Sherlock's always doing something.

"1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11..." Sherlock counts coloured blocks he has in his room. Then he lists the colours whilst Mycroft nods and smiles. His brother's fourth birthday is very close now. School has not been discussed.

There are no special needs schools for at least sixty miles. The local school is quite small. Its facilities and equipment could definitely be improved, but that's nothing that the Holmes can't pay for. But that isn't the problem. Other people are. The kids, they're stupid, normal. Sherlock just won't fit in, no matter how clever he is. The rocking (Mycroft found it was called stimming) wouldn't be ordinary. Kids can be cruel - having Mycroft is enough experience with that.

"Mycroft, come here." Father calls. Mycroft closes the lid of the piano he was playing and sits down next to his father.

"Yes?"  
"We're not sure whether we should send Sherlock to school. Your school."  
"I don't think he'd like P. E. And there's too many idiots."  
"They need new equipment. They'll let him not do it. You'd be there, though, Mycroft."  
"And it might do him good to interact with other children." Mother interjects, sitting down next to the father and son.  
"Children will bully him!"  
"Well, we'll teach him to be normal."  
"How? We just can't do that!"  
"He already learns and copies from you, why can't you teach him that?"  
"I will teach him if you agree to take him out of school if anything goes wrong."  
There's a pause.

"All right, Mycroft." Mother says.

* * *

 

Sherlock stands in his new school uniform. The trousers and polo shirt are slightly too long and quite baggy on him; the sizes are based off a four-year old who still has baby fat. Sherlock is unnaturally thin compared to his peers. His shoes are plain grey Velcro. The jumper doesn't have to be worn, since Sherlock had put it on and rocked furiously until it was taken off, "it's too tight, it's too tight!". His dark curls won't flatten. Mycroft looks like an average student. Just how clever, logical, tactical he is, is hidden away. The two boys look so different.

They both climb into the shiny black car, Sherlock clutching his new bookbag, Mycroft holding an old one. The drive to school is a short one but nobody talks, not even Sherlock. When the brothers step out, the concrete-gravel crunching under their feet, Mycroft's little brother is suddenly glued to his side. Sherlock grasps his brother's hand so hard both their knuckles are white. Mycroft leads Sherlock round to his reception classroom. He has to gently prise his little brother away. With one last goodbye (Mycroft) and one last excruciatingly tight hug (Sherlock), they part.

Sherlock walks inside his classroom slowly. Lingering in the doorway, he can see the brightly coloured posters and drawings up on the walls. There's five tables and the teacher's desk. Around the room are some kind of trays with lots of different things in them. The carpet rustles under his feet, loudly. Sitting at the desk is a teacher.

She crouches down to Sherlock's level and puts her hands on his shoulders. Sherlock flinches and jumps back.  
"Hello, Sherlock."  
" 'lo." he mumbles.  
"Shall we put your coat and bookbag away?"

Sherlock shrugs, looking anywhere but the teacher. He twists his hands around because it will help the rustling go away, and the teacher's warm fingers. He shuffles after the teacher and obediently takes off his coat and releases his death grip on his bag. Once his belongings are hung on pegs, the teacher tells him where to sit. He's at a table next to the window. Sherlock sits down nervously and waits for the other children.

The bell goes, making him cover his ears, and children start coming through the door. A lot. They peer at Sherlock as they walk across the carpet to put their things away. Slowly they sit down, filling up all the seats at the tables. The scraping of chairs and chatter is loud.

The teacher sits down too.  
With "yes" and "here" and "hello"s, the teacher checks off names. When it gets to Sherlock, and everyone looks, he just nods.

The teacher puts down her register and stands, bringing Sherlock, in the middle of the room.  
"Good morning! Let's take the register."  
"This is Sherlock, everybody. Do you remember how you felt on your first day?" The young children nod. "Well, he will feel like that, so let's make Sherlock feel welcome."

Sherlock doesn't feel welcome. Not here, this noisy, bright room. Not in the clean, green-and-beige,-seated therapist's office. He feels welcome with Mycroft, no matter where.


	5. The First Day At School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has his first day at school. It's not a great day, but Mycroft is there as usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, it's me,  
> I was wondering if anyone would want to be my beta reader! I can be a beta reader too, perhaps beta-for-beta? I don't know.

There are five other people at Sherlock's table: Toby, Carter, Jake, Sarah and Aaron. They stare at the new boy sitting in the sixth, previously empty, seat. His table isn't the only staring at him; Sherlock has attracted everyone's attention. He doesn't like feeling all the eyes on him. They make him feel unnerved, scared, on edge. Sherlock slides down in his chair a little bit.

First they do counting. Sherlock likes that because all the numbers have an order, a place to be. He's the best out of the class, even though he never puts his hand up. He watches as his classmates struggle to count to 10 and wonders how they can't do it. When the teacher picks Sherlock to answer a question, he mumbles a barely audible number he has to repeat twice, each time only slIghtly louder than the one before.

Even though Sherlock feels anxious and somewhat odd throughout the morning, it's Breaktime that really does it. Everybody's let out into a playground divided from the main one by a wooden fence. There are several brightly-coloured, plastic things to climb on, and a little maze in the corner. Sherlock stands, hands in pockets, head bowed, at the far corner. He wants to hide before everyone crowds around him like Mycroft warned. As Sherlock trudges across the gravel and grass, most of his class come running up to him. They quickly surround him, shouting and laughing.

"Want to play with us?"  
"Who are you?"  
"No, play with us!"  
"Come on!"  
  
Their voices echo in Sherlock's head, loudly, as he cringes. They're all in a circle around him, offering to play or talk or share lunches. He runs, suddenly pushing through them all, but they follow, thinking it's a game. Sherlock skids slightly on the gravel as he turns to get rid of his classmates. He's looking back, too see them too close, and skids again. This time, his shoe catches on a pile of planks and tyres and sends him flying. His hands hit first, scraping against the gravel. Then the rest of Sherlock's body slams into the ground, knocking all the breath out of him. He lays there, palms stinging, body aching, head pounding. Everyone kneels does and tries to talk to him. The noise, the stinging, the nerves are too much for Sherlock and he feels the tears running down his face. He pulls his legs up to his chest and rocks, fast, ignoring the blood coming from his hands. Between sobs, he manages to choke, "My-cw-off"

The teacher, who has been dragged over by another student, recognises the name. Mycroft Holmes, the cleverest boy in his year - the school. Mycroft Holmes.. _Sherlock's_ brother? It's almost funny.

The teacher sends off two children to tell someone about Sherlock. It's not long before they come running back, having told the deputy-head. Sherlock is still rocking, blotting out all the voices from the outside. He wants them to stop, he can't control them. He can control what he does, if he rocks it'll be ok, in his head.  
  


* * *

 

Mycroft is sitting at his table, utterly bored. How his classmates, at eleven, cannot grasp the concept of basic punctuation amused him. The lesson accompanying this subject is much less amusing. Mycroft's allowed to read in lessons, when he's finished everything the teachers give him. It's at the point where they start bringing in extra work just for him, but that is finished is a few minutes.

"Mycroft Holmes?"  
The sharp voice of the deputy-headmistress makes the Year Six classroom freeze. Everyone turns to look at Mycroft.  
"Come to the office, now."

He gets up and walks off, leaving his classmates staring. He's lead past the office, down to _Year 2? Year 1? Reception!_ Suddenly, Mycroft feels icy cold with dread. Sherlock. He dodges past teachers and heads out, onto the playground where a crowd is gathered.

He rushes towards the noisy children, moving five-year-olds out of the way. There's Sherlock, eyes shut, rocking fast and humming gently. Tears are running down his face and dripping onto his collar. Between gasps for air and coughs, Sherlock whimpers out his brother's name again. Mycroft sits down and holds Sherlock's hand tenderly, avoiding the cuts.

He whispers softly into his brother's ear. " _It's ok, Sherlock. I'm here, your brother. Come on, breath with me."_

Sherlock starts to copy his brother's slow, exaggerated breathing. Mycroft holds his head lightly and talks reassuringly. Slowly, Sherlock stops rocking, eventually ending up lying in his brother's lap. Now he's just sobbing. Mycroft strokes his brother's head, still talking quietly. The teacher ushers everyone away.

Finally, Sherlock isn't crying. He's lying there. Mycroft thinks he looks too sad, a child shouldn't look like that, red eyed, runny nosed, exhausted. Sherlock doesn't speak, but neither does Mycroft. They stay sitting on playground. Their silence is only disturbed by a teacher, who tells them to go down to the office. Mycroft assumes Sherlock is going home.

The younger boy whimpers and clings to his sibling. Mycroft would have to be some kind of monster to refuse Sherlock like this. So he picks up Sherlock, his brother's legs over his arm and his hands holding on to Mycroft's neck. They manage to stagger awkwardly to the office and collapse into soft blue chairs. Within minutes, Mummy's here and she signs the paperwork impatiently. She carries Sherlock to the car and Mycroft is left to go back to lessons, worrying about his little brother.

He even gets some maths questions wrong, that's how worried he is. Sherlock's his little brother, and whatever the world will throw at him, Mycroft will always be there for him. He promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I did this to Sherlock... I'm sorry. Let's just hope things get better for him!


	6. A Job To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody can be there all the time. Sherlock needs someone to be there. Maybe someone can be there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't posted since January! I'm so sorry! I've had some problems recently that have knocked me off schedule quite a bit. I'm still trying to get back on track in general and in terms of this. So here's a new chapter!

Caring for Sherlock never was going to be easy. Right from the beginning to the moment he left, it was going to be a struggle. Nobody's there to constantly look after him; to soothe him, to take him home, to comfort him and tell him that he's alright. Nobody can be there all the time. Nobody who has a job to do.             

_A job to do._

Violet Holmes is as lost in thought as her son is on the drive home. She needs someone whos job is to care for her son. Not "specialist care" provided to her - and every other family. A nanny. A nanny willing to deal with an autistic child who will undoubtedly have to be driven backwards and forwards from places more than any other child. But Sherlock isn't any other child. Not every nanny truly cares for the child they look after. So many people have the basic skills but lack care, attention, work for the money and the money only. But some, a few, get that satisfaction from keeping a child safe and caring for them. They're just the hardest to find.

 

That’s why, after almost an hour of research, the name “Martha Husdon” is still on the computer screen. Even after all the background checks (courtesy of Siger Holmes). She’s young, she has a perfect track record. There’s just one problem: Introducing her to Sherlock.

Luckily, almost any time is fine as Sherlock probably won’t be at school tomorrow. Even more convenient is that Martha isn’t too far away; she lives on the outskirts of London, about an hour’s drive away. The Holmeses would be able to let her live with them if she wanted. Most of the servants and helpers around the house did choose to live in the part of the house – mansion – that they could call their own. So as Sherlock goes upstairs to his bedroom, his mother calls the agency and begins to arrange an important part of her son’s life.

Martha (Mrs Hudson) arrives on time. She’s dressed neatly but looks comfortable. She doesn’t look strict, more gentle. Violet feels like Sherlock will like her. She shows the nanny her seat and goes to look for Sherlock, asking the cook to make tea on her way. Sherlock is lying on his bed, facing down.

“Sherlock? I need you to come and meet somebody.”

“Who?” Sherlock asks, rolling over.

“Someone who is going to look after you.”

“Why not Myc?”

“Myc is busy, Sherlock. He can’t spend all of his time with you.”

“I don’t want a person.”

A person? “It’s for your own good, Sherlock. Please just meet her at least.”

“No,” Sherlock states. He doesn’t like new people. New people always try and make him talk. They look different. They smell different and most of them talk like he’s a baby. But he can’t say that, can’t explain why he doesn’t like people. He’s tired of new people. What’s wrong with old people?

Violet sighs. Getting Sherlock introduced is going to be much harder than she originally thought. If he wasn’t coming down, Martha would have to come up. Walking into the room, Violet sits next to Martha.

“I’m terribly sorry, but Sherlock won’t come down. Can you follow me upstairs?”

“Don’t be, I’m used to it. I wouldn’t want to make him worry.” Martha smiles.

When they enter the room, Sherlock is still on his bed. He’s lying against the wall, the side of his face pressed against the smooth, cold surface. He looks up and jumps. A few stray curls cover his eyes as he curls up in the corner.

 

“Sherlock, this is..”

“Martha, dear.” The new nanny supplies.

Sherlock is silent as Mummy and ‘Martha’ sit down on the opposite end of his bed. He stares at the stranger, looking at her clothes and hair and face and everything. She smells nice. She’s smiling and her eyes are twinkling. She doesn’t try to touch him or make him talk. Sherlock averts his gaze and stares down at the carpet. He likes this person, just a little bit.

“And this is Sherlock.”

“’lo” He whispers, still watching the floor.

“Hello, Sherlock.” Martha says quietly.

Sherlock wonders why strangers can’t all be like this.

“Sherlock, I was talking to you earlier. Do you remember what I said?” Mummy asks him.

He nods.

“I think that Mrs H- Martha could do that, don’t you?”

Sherlock nods again. This time, he looks up at his nanny’s face and holds eye contact just for a second. The corners of his mouth perk up a bit as he looks down again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what did you think? I probably get way too excited over comments but if there's anything you want to say, please do!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: ANY views on autism expressed in this chapter are not my views.

  
It's final. Martha is now officially Sherlock's nanny and she's going to live in the mansion, there with her charge. Sherlock has someone that can always be there for him, care for him, help him. Alongside Mycroft, of course. Violet wonders what his reaction will be. Nobody has told him yet that his little brother has a nanny.  
  
She decides to pick her son up herself, instead of sending the driver (who's had a few days off by now). Mycroft is there, waiting on the corner of the street just past the school. He slides into the back seat of the car, putting his bag on the other seat.  
  
"How's Sherlock?" He asks as he fastens his seatbelt.  
  
"He's having a good- he's better than earlier. In fact, he met someone today."  
  
"Really? Who?"  
  
"A nanny. I hired a nanny because there's nobody who can be there for him all the time.  
As I'm sure you know. I think he likes her. Your father ran background checks, don't worry."  
  
Mycroft visibly relaxes slightly. He doesn't want a nanny for Sherlock. Irrational. He knows that it's selfish, immature, but he wants to look after his baby brother. Now that someone else has to do that, he won't get to do it so much. The fact that Sherlock likes her only makes the jealousy worse. If Sherlock likes the nanny, and the nanny spends a lot of time with him, perhaps he'll come to prefer the nanny. Mycroft knows that he's thinking like an idiot but it doesn't take the bitterness out of his thoughts.  
  
"Isn't that good?" Mummy interrupts the silence.  
  
"Yes, it is." Mycroft forces himself to agree.  
  
Violet can feel that something is wrong. She just can't put a finger on it. So she decides that, since there is no logical reason for any worry, nothing is wrong.

* * *

  
  
Sherlock is sitting in his playroom. He's sitting on the mat that 'Martha' found for him. He runs his finger down each road, stopping at a corner like Mummy does. He's being a car, he decides. _Brum brum_. He giggles at the sound he can make and does it again, causing more giggles. Mycroft walks into the house to hear distant giggles, a new sound. He smiles as he knows that only Sherlock can be the one behind the laughing. It's coming from the direction of the playroom. Abandoning his bag, Mycroft almost runs up the stairs and down the corridor to his brother's playroom.  
  
The first thing he notices is that there's a mat on the floor. A mat that wasn't there yesterday. The second thing is that Sherlock is absorbed in what he's doing and doesn't turn around. Usually he'll jump up and hug Mycroft, soothed by the pressure of the returned gesture. The nanny must have given Sherlock the mat, Mycroft deduces. Great, she's already started to give Sherlock gifts. He looks around for the gift he gave Sherlock. It wasn't in the playroom, it must've been left in his little brother's bedroom.  
  
This is confirmed when Mycroft retrieves his bag from downstairs and passes his brother's room to get to his own. At least his present can be used pretty much anywhere; a mat can just sit and gather dust. The thought sounds particularly like boasting. Mycroft wishes he could stop being jealous. He doesn't have his emotions under control completely. Frowning, he puts his schoolbooks on his desk and begins his homework.  
  
When he's finished, which is very quickly (similes and subtraction - really?), he heads downstairs. Mycroft isn't used to doing what he wants. For as long as he could visit Sherlock, he'd always spend the rest of the day in the playroom. He decides to go and practice on the piano; it had been a while since he had last played. Mycroft practices until the piece he's playing is played perfectly. It's just a shame that no-one was around to hear it:  
  
Speaking of no-one, where is this nanny? She's not with Sherlock. The best bet to find her is the kitchen or servant's quarters. Mycroft watches various people come in and out of their rooms, greeting them with a terse nod. Still no nanny. He turns back and walks into the kitchen instead. Aha. There's the cook, who says a polite hello. Then there's another woman, about 25 or so, Mycroft guesses.  
  
"Hello! Mike-no, Mycr..."  
  
"Mycroft." He corrects, in an icier tone that he expected.  
  
"Oh yes, sorry. You're Sherlock's brother. I'm Martha, or Mrs Hudson."  
  
"Hello, Mrs Hudson."  
  
"How old are you? You look about ten?"  
  
"Eleven. Goodbye." Mycroft leaves promptly, to prevent jealousy making him say something regrettable.  
  
Mrs Hudson looks nice enough. She has a certain twinkle in her eye and a warm voice. Mycroft can see why Sherlock likes her. But the older Holmes doesn't like her. Logic tells him that she's not trying to make Sherlock like her more, that Sherlock will still love him. Stupid emotions interfere with logic though, and Mycroft can't wait to be able to shut them out completely. Not all of them. He'd still keep his love for his little brother. _Obviously_.  
  
Dinner is slightly uncomfortable. Apparently Mrs Hudson eats with the rest of the family (minus Sherlock). Father's back from a trip that Mycroft was vaguely aware of. A small chatter is stricken up, consisting mainly of Sherlock. Mycroft only gets the chance to talk directly to his father when they're on dessert.  
  
"Father, I practiced Moonlight Sonata and I can play it perfectly now."  
  
"Well done, my boy, I'll have to listen to you play it sometime."  
  
Normally Father would have come to listen to his son play the piano immediately after the meal. Instead, he vanishes into his study, leaving Mycroft alone. He decides to help with washing the dishes. All the while, Mrs Hudson and Mummy keep up the chat, even in the kitchen. Mycroft just works silently, ignoring the nanny and his mother. He's rewarded with a pat on the shoulders. It seems that nobody is paying attention to him. Mycroft knows that people are busy, but it doesn't stop the feeling of loneliness. He practices the piano until he has to go to bed.  
  
 

* * *

  
  
Tomorrow morning, he wakes up and gets dressed as usual. There's a plate of hot  toast and marmalade waiting for him. There's half an hour left before Mycroft has to go to school. Normally he would be helping the staff to dress Sherlock but he's not going to school again. Mycroft just flicks through a textbook and waits for the clock to chime and the driver to pick him up.  
  
Today is going to be a bad day. Kasper and Thomas are waiting at the school gates like they do every morning. Waiting for Mycroft to walk past them so they can jeer at him. "Weirdo! Loser! Freak!" On an average day, their comments are ignored but today they have an annoying effect. Mycroft has to admit that they have an advantage come to size. He can't physically shut them up. But look at wits, and the pair could be outsmarted by a particularly dim witted potato. Their torment isn't offensive, just very annoying. And repetitive.  
  
By lunch time, Mycroft's about ready to seriously injure one of them. Considering that he's not a violent person, Thomas and Kasper should probably have run away. Luckily, their 'victim' gets an excuse to do exactly what he wanted. The idiots are standing in front of him in the lunch queue. They're constantly turning round to insult him. But they've gone too far. "Hey, what's that brother of yours called? Sherlock, isn't it, he's autistic? He's pretty retarted, getting scared of people!"  
  
"What did you just say about my brother?" Mycroft demands in a low voice. Kasper turns round again and repeats his words.  
"Your brother is rea-"  
  
Mycroft punches the annoying idiot in the nose with all the strength he can muster. Kasper shouts and soon staff are rushing over. Kasper's nose is gushing blood. It's not broken but it cracked very satisfyingly. Most people are staring at the crying bully, the biggest boy in the school, and the shorter, cleverer boy next to him. Mycroft gets pulled into the headmaster's office but gets off with a few detentions. Perhaps being a star pupil has benefits as well as problems. Kasper isn't seen for the rest of the day and Thomas stays well out of the way, so Mycroft counts that as a victory. Sherlock may not fit in, but the whole school has seen his older brother make a bully cry. Nobody's going to pick a fight now.  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the mat, if you want to see it http://www.therughouseuk.esellersolutions.com/item/productImages/1274_1.jpg


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A doctor's appointment leaves Sherlock with a few questions. And a new kid at school, along with a certain punishment.

 

  
Mummy is both very pleased and very angry with Mycroft.  
"Well, Mycroft, you've gotten yourself into a bit of trouble."  
  
"That idiot deserved it! He called Sherlock retarded!"  
  
"Don't ever say that word again, Mycroft. I know that you're telling me what others said but we're not going to hear that word in this house. But anyway, you didn't have to resort to violence."  
  
"What else was I supposed to do? Let him get away with insulting my brother like that?"  
  
"Tell someone!"  
  
"Have you never been to school? That never works." Mycroft says scornfully.  
  
"When I was in school, it did, and we were a lot more respectful. Just go and play with your brother, Mycroft."  
  
"If he's not with that nanny..." He mutters under his breath as he walks out. Pausing outside Sherlock's door, Mycroft hopes that he's alone. He enters slowly. Sherlock immediately launches himself at his brother, making them both stagger backwards. Mycroft picks up his little brother, who's way too light for a four-year-old. Sherlock looks up at his brother.  
  
"Sorry." Sherlock mumbles, avoiding eye contact for once.  
  
"Why are you sorry?" Mycroft asks, surprised.  
  
"Didn't play with you yesterday!"  
  
Mycroft almost laughs. It sounds adorable and somewhat like he's the one that needs to be played with.  
  
"Extra play today?" Sherlock questions.  
  
His older brother nods. Sherlock grins like he's having the best time ever. They spend the next while playing a very original game invented by Sherlock; he runs and Mycroft chases him. Sherlock seems to have fun, running around and around the playroom, occasionally throwing in a few turns so that Mycroft - who is essentially walking - can't catch him. When the older Holmes decides to catch his sibling rather easily, he tickles Sherlock. The giggles are so infectious that Mycroft can't help laughing too, until both brothers are reduced to giggling lumps on the floor. A sight so cute that Mummy has to take a photo when she sees. Mycroft is too late in leaping up and reaching for the camera. Despite his protests, he isn't going to get rid of that photo.  
  
Sherlock is still sprawled on the floorboards. His chest is rising and falling faster than normal, remnants of the laughing fit. He rolls over and smiles lazily at Mycroft, who returns the smile. He's just grateful that Sherlock can laugh, play, smile. He wouldn't change his little brother for the world.  
  
Mummy wasn't just passing by. Sherlock's got a checkup with the paediatrician, the one who said that speech was just repetition. Mycroft thinks that man is an idiot. Sherlock stands up and goes to follow his mother. As they pass his room, he darts in and grabs his muslin. The group of three get in the car and soon they're at the paediatrician's office. Sherlock holds his blue blanket tightly in his hands and swings his legs. His ankles clack against chair legs, drawing annoyed looks. As usual, the small boy doesn't see them as he's staring down at the carpet. After quite a long (and boring) wait, Sherlock is finally called. He, his brother and their mother enter the room.  
  
The doctor is waiting. He doesn't look particularly busy. Then begins the actual checkup. First, Sherlock has to get weighed. 13.5, slightly underweight. 98cm tall. That part is the easiest for Sherlock. The worst is the physical part. The doctor sits the 4-year-old on the bed and pulls out a lollipop stick and a torch. His patient already knows what's about to happen. He shakes his head silently.  
  
"Not the stick! He doesn't like it." Mycroft says, having witnessed a checkup before. This paediatrician either can't remember things or is just an idiot. Probably the latter. Sherlock hates having his tongue pushed down. The doctor manages to check Sherlock's ears and throat relatively easily. Eyes, not so much. The torch is bright and Sherlock flinches away. The second time he blinks. A lot. Finally, when the doctor gets a good look, he declares that Sherlock's eyes are fine. Which Mycroft agrees because what child doesn’t blink at a bright light? That isn't the worst. Lastly, the breathing. Sherlock takes off his top and lies down on the bed. Paper towels scrunch up underneath him. He jumps as the doctor's cold hands feel his chest. The paediatrician tells him to take big deep breaths and presses the stethoscope against Sherlock's back. Again, he jumps and almost falls off the bed. Eventually, the session ends and a slightly anxious Sherlock slides off the bed and clutches Mycroft's hand. The paediatrician waves them off with a, "Bye, William!"  
  
They pass the general waiting room on their way out. Kasper is sitting down, holding a tea towel and an ice pack over his nose. Mummy notices Mycroft looking and nods discretely in the bully's direction. Her son mutters, "Yes,".  
"Well done."  


* * *

  
  
The driver stops the car on the gravel driveway and everyone gets out. They enter the mansion and immediately smell baking. Mummy's got things to do, so she leaves with the instruction to keep Sherlock entertained. The brothers wander into the kitchen to find Mrs Hudson mixing something in a bowl.  
  
"Hello, boys! Do you want to help me with this? I'm making pudding for later." She says, showing them the contents of the bowl. Mycroft recognises it as cake batter.  
  
"Can we?" Sherlock asks his older brother. "Are you?"  
  
"Yes, I suppose we can. I'll do it. I'll bring down a change of clothes for you."  
  
Making dessert is not the first thing that Mycroft wants to do, but if his brother wants to then that's what he'll be doing. The only thing Sherlock will be making is a mess, because four year olds generally do that. Mycroft changes out of his school uniform and takes a t-shirt and trousers downstairs for Sherlock. His brother has already started helping; pouring a massive amount of sugar onto the scales. Mrs Hudson give Mycroft the job of weighing the butter and then cracking the eggs over the bowl. It's quite fun, considering that all he's doing is putting food into a bowl. Sherlock is still weighing sugar. He's managed to get it everywhere, including the counter and his own hair. After the contents of both brother's bowls have been mixed together, the milk is added.  
  
"Who wants to mix this?" Mrs Hudson asks.  
  
  
Sherlock attempts it first, with Mycroft holding the bowl. The wooden spoon soon becomes covered in batter. Cake mixture gets everywhere as Sherlock mixes faster; on the counter, on himself, on Mycroft. After a few minutes of vigorous mixing, Sherlock hands the bowl to his brother. Mycroft manages to mix it better, actually keeping most of the batter in the bowl. “You’re good at this, Mycroft.” Mrs Hudson says, smiling.  
  
He wonders if he is good at it. It’s a small thing, but he’s been complimented so much. Mostly by people looking after Sherlock, where everything he does is great compared to his little brother. They brush him off, paying attention to the youngest brother. Mycroft knows that they have to, that’s what they’re there for, but it would be nice to have someone genuinely pay attention to him for once. It’s selfish, childish, he thinks.  
  
Mrs Hudson pours the batter into the cake moulds and puts them in the oven. Mycroft lifts his little brother onto the kitchen counter.  
“Myc?”

“Yes?”

“Why did the doctor call me William?”  
  
“That’s your first name, Sherlock.”

“Why doesn’t everyone at home call me William?”

“Well, when you were born, everyone called you William. Your whole name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. William is an ordinary name. And you’re not ordinary, Sherlock. You’re..” ‘Special’ hints stupid, disabled. “Unique. And you’re the only person in the world with the name Sherlock, so I called you that instead.”  
  
Sherlock leans forwards and hugs his brother. “Are you the only person called Myc?”  
“Yes. Names aren’t always unique. People are. That means that everyone is different. Even though people look the same, inside, they’re all different.”

Sherlock sits back and thinks. He nods. “Why?”

Mycroft doesn’t know how to answer. He can’t explain the genetics; it would only confuse Sherlock. 

“I don’t know. Some people are different because they grew up in different ways. Some people’s brains are different.”

“But you know everything!” Sherlock says, puzzled.  
Mycroft smiles. His brother has so much to learn.  
  
  
It’s time for Sherlock to go back to school again. He has the same too-big uniform, washed and clean. He gets dressed slowly and has his breakfast in his playroom. At half past eight, Sherlock joins his brother in the car and they’re driven to the school. They’re just on time; early enough to not be late, late enough to not have to wait outside. Sherlock lets go of his brother’s hand and goes into his classroom. Mycroft heads off in the opposite direction to his.  
Sherlock puts his coat on his peg and puts his bookbag below it. He turns around and steps back into the main classroom. His classmates are all sitting in their seats, like normal. Sherlock looks around and remembers his table. He slides into his seat, twisting his hands under the desk. As he looks around again, there’s someone that he doesn’t remember. A boy, in the corner. Nobody’s talking to him. The teacher starts registration. Then, everybody gets to play. The new boy is in the corner, away from most of the noise. Sherlock comes up to him, slowly.

“Hi.” the boy says.

“’lo” Sherlock greets him.

“Don’t you have people to play with?”

Sherlock shakes his head. The boy smiles.

“I don’t. Wanna be friends?”

Sherlock nods. He doesn’t really know what friends are, but he likes this boy. He’s quiet and doesn’t like noise either.

“You don’t talk much, do you? I have a sister like you. She doesn’t speak.”

“I do talk.” Sherlock whispers. The boy just keeps smiling. They swing

“Want to go play on the swings?”  
Sherlock follows the boy outside, to the swings that he didn’t notice before. Not many people are outside. The boy lies on his stomach across the seat. Sherlock copies.

“I never asked your name, I’m Alex.”

“Sherlock.”

“That’s a cool name.” Alex smiles. They swing together for a while, Alex talking and Sherlock occasionally replying. After a while of slow swinging, the pair have to go inside to the literacy* lesson.

The teacher hands out sheets with the letters A, B, C and D on. Using a pencil, the children have to trace them. Sherlock knows the alphabet; he just can’t hold the pencil properly. The teacher crouches down beside him and starts to help him. She tells him about the alphabet. Sherlock shakes his head. He can’t hold the pencil, but he knows the letters. The teacher misunderstands, thinking that the boy doesn’t know either. Sherlock is frustrated. He can’t tell her what he’s thinking, he wants to. He just can’t find words. Instead, he drops the pencil and puts his head on the table. The teacher tells Sherlock to concentrate and do his work. When he doesn’t move, she reminds him again. Still no response. She makes him stand up and she takes him to the corner of the room. Sherlock sits, facing the wall. It’s quite nice, no bright colours. Just a grey wall and blue carpet. The chair is in the furthest corner from everybody else. Sherlock wonders why he’s here, and why he doesn’t have to do work. The teacher goes back to helping others. She comes back, three minutes later.  
“Now, Sherlock. Do you want to come back and do your work now?”

“No?” Sherlock says, almost asking. He wants to stay here.

“Why not, Sherlock?”

“Stay here.”

“You can’t stay here.”  
Sherlock disagrees. He holds on to the chair and, since the teacher can’t physically drag him off, he stays there. The only time he gets up is when everybody starts playing again, because he wants to swing with his new friend. The teacher sighs when the boy suddenly gets up and runs outside, completely ignoring her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't think of a summary for this.. Also, literacy is English, essentially. And, again, if you want to say anything, go ahead! :)


	9. Announcement

I don't really know how to say this but I'll try. 

I guess I can't write it as easily as I could at the beginning. I'm having less ideas for the storyline. I think that taking a break, to get the plot and ideas sorted, would be a good idea. I might write the whole story and publish it chapter by chapter. Hopefully I'll be back to this after a while. Thanks for all the kudos and comments!

 

 **Update:** Writer's Block sucks. Haven't written many chapters - but I'm trying longer chapters. So yeah. Haven't given up.


End file.
